Composition and Competition
Basketball is a dance. Amidst the hectic rush and rudeness, there is something graceful in the arch of a free throw, the bend of a body.
Sneaker squeals and gruff grunts sing counterpoint to the zing-zing-zings of orange rubber. Your eyes trace the action, sister against brother, your mitten-clad hands gripping your steaming cocoa for added warmth. Your butt has started to grow numb, but right now you don't care. Happiness is this, sitting here beneath a bright December sun, watching poetry in action.
Yes. Basketball is a dance. And the way Jane plays basketball demands a soundtrack. The right chords and runs to accent the delicate mix of playfulness and intensity. The idea isn't a new one. You've had many hours to contemplate this over the years. All the times Jane sought comfort or release in the scuff of sneakers on asphalt, the familiar bump and shove within the boundaries of a game she knows, and plays well. She's so at home with herself when she's moving.
It started months ago, you trying out snip-its of songs in your mind, a running backdrop to Jane's choreography on the court. You tried everything from rock to classical, alternative to country. You expanded your already expansive repertoire in search for that elusive tune. Yet none of them fit quite right. Not one of them captured the essence of Jane Rizzoli playing basketball. You'd almost given it up as hopeless. But now…
Jane ducks a block and shoots – a score – her elated cry puffing white into the chill December air. She turns and dark eyes catch yours between even darker curls, loose from her hair tie. The connection is like a snap of tightened rubber. You feel the vibration in your bones. It sends a thrill down your spine.
You grin into your coffee mug.
Now. Finally, you've reached a consensus.
Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.
Jane curses on the court, as though she's heard your thought. But you nod, decisive, and think it again, firmly, as though that will set it in stone.
Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. If the Tran-Siberian Orchestra ever gave it a go, that is.
You compose a bit in your mind, tweak rhythm and insert elements. You like the result. The perfect blend of delicate and rough.
Minor key, to capture the anticipation. Deep base for the dribbles, mirroring escalating heartbeats.
You sip your cocoa, feel the welcome warmth pool in your center, a pleasant contrast to the crisp chill in the air. Eyeing the court, you warm to your subject, settle back against the bench to watch the battle.
Electric guitar for the shoves and fakes. Percussion in the scuffle of shoes, cymbals for the smack talk, back talk. But underneath it all, above it all, a melody so familiar, so comforting, as to render any outward deviance acceptable. Almost…endearing.
You run your finger along the rim of your glass, thoughtful. Your eyes trace the back and forth of the dance, drawn to agile footwork and tensing shoulders. Then details you've seen before without really seeing. Skin warmed pink from exertion and cold. The delicate protrusion of a wrist. The gentle slope where throat meets shoulder. A light sheen of perspiration. That cocky confidence in the jut of a hip.
A flash of a smile – half sass, all Jane – when she scores.
Your breath catches and you almost drop your mug. You blink and pull the beverage in to your chest, as though the familiarity of cocoa will anchor your spiraling thoughts.
Basketball and ballet may be as far removed as Michelangelo and Monet, but there is something equally compelling in the art of form and movement. And now you can't shake Jane's symphony from your mind.
Low cello, even and steady for that passionate drive. Dissonance both jarring and enticing. Strings to highlight the stretch and flex of muscle beneath skin on every reach—
You realize you are warming to more than just the subject. In a way that makes your thoughts scatter. It is not unpleasant.
Your mind shifts and shutters, sensing a growing warmth in the vicinity of your heart that has nothing to do with hot chocolate.
"What does the winner get?"
Jane backhands Frankie on the arm before you can respond. "Bragging rights," she says, a warning in her voice. As though it should be obvious.
She squares off with Frankie, you partly behind her.
Frankie rubs the offended shoulder and shoves Jane in return. She bumps into you, and behind her back her hands grasp your arm and hip, briefly, as she regains her balance. As though to ensure your own equilibrium.
Frankie raises an eyebrow, only half-playing, and you can see Jane's shoulders tense, even beneath the layers.
"Yeah, but why not sweeten the deal." You don't miss the way his eyes dart to you.
Neither does Jane.
Jane scowls, but there is thought behind it, and doubt. She's calculating.
"A surprise," you say, to break the unexpected tension.
They both turn to you as though they've forgotten your presence. The matching Rizzoli confusion is comical. You hold back a laugh.
"What?" Jane's voice is low. She heard you, but her eyes ask another question altogether.
"A surprise," you repeat, add a slight wiggle of your shoulders. A smile. Playful. "For the winner."
Jane's body stills. She stares at you, dark eyes narrowed. You tilt your head, meet her gaze, but something in your stomach clenches. It's almost unsettling, all that sharp focus resting solely on you. For a moment, you believe Jane is going to protest, before she lets out a bark of a laugh and punches Frankie again. Harder. He drops the ball with a grunt and she scoops it up, already dribbling.
"Hey!"
"Surprise!" she calls as she lands an easy layup. She bends low, retrieving the ball. "Two-zip." She smirks over her shoulder, then checks the ball into Frankie's chest. Hard.
A surprise.
You didn't really have anything in mind. You still don't. Maybe a kiss on the cheek. It's rather overdone, cliché.
But now you wonder just what was going through Jane's mind, behind those dark eyes as they searched yours. You wonder what she found, if there was a question there you missed the chance to answer.
You wrap your free hand around your middle, suddenly feeling exposed.
The end is anticlimactic. One last layup and then groans and whoops mingled with labored breaths. You've lost track of the score, but right now numbers are far less important than the way your heartbeat wants to dribble itself out of your chest.
They converge on you, winded yet content. Jane gives Frankie a shove at something he says. He's all smiles and bashful pride.
She's let Frankie win again. You can tell by the way her scowl and scoffs lack the true vehemence of defeat. This normally would not bother you. It shouldn't bother you. It doesn't.
But you still haven't moved.
She reaches over you for her discarded sweatshirt, wipes her forearms, chest, throat. Your eyes linger where the cloth cleans. Her movements pause as she glances at you with something like concerned confusion, damp curls framing the expression, and for an alarming moment, you are all awkward angles and teenage angst once again.
"So?"
You start and come back to yourself in a rush. The distraction allows your chest to expand. A blush and a deep breath settles the sudden surge of nerves and you turn to Frankie and smile at his expectant grin.
"Surprise for the winner?" he prompts, holding his arms out from his sides.
You set your now cool mug aside, slip off your gloves and stand, smoothing your coat free of imaginary wrinkles. Your actions are controlled, effortless, routine. They hide the tremor in your fingers.
You don't know why Frankie feels so safe, but it's so easy to meet his brown eyes, match is eager smile. Easy to laugh and put a hand on his shoulder, lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. Feel the rough stubble beneath your lips. So easy.
So easy your mind does not stop hearing the dance of sugar plums, seeing the flex of feminine muscle with new eyes.
The kiss is what's expected. His blushing grin and glance to the ground is almost endearing.
"Congratulations, Frankie," you say, and mean it.
You can't stop feeling the burn of dark caramel eyes between your shoulder blades.
He nods and moves away, and you turn to meet Jane's gaze. She stands there unassuming, baggy sweatshirt balled and cradled at her waist. She has a half-smile on her face, hair a messy rebellion, one damp tendril caressing her throat. Shirt stained with perspiration.
You take a step toward her without conscious thought.
"Consolation prize?" Jane asks with an almost-shrug, her sheepish smile not quite hiding…something. Some emotion you can't place. Disappointment?
You pause as if in thought, raise an eyebrow. Could I really… Your mind races, considering, deciding, reconsidering. The hesitation makes her curious. Her posture loosens and her eyes ask a question. You answer in a language Jane can understand.
You can allow yourself this small indulgence. Just once.
You lean forward, a hand to her bicep ostensibly for balance. You feel her muscles flex beneath your fingers, her heated skin drawing you in. Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't move away. Your other hand rests on her jaw, cold fingertips just brushing the damp roots of black curls. Up on your tiptoes, your lips press against the smooth skin of her cheek, lingering long enough to appreciate the softness, the warmth of her surprised exhale. You close your eyes in a slow blink, letting yourself feel. Letting yourself exist in the moment.
One heartbeat. Two.
You distantly register the light whomp of her sweatshirt falling to the ground.
You pull away, ever aware of watching eyes and the code of propriety.
"You let him win."
The words are out before you can censor them.
Hands on your waist prevent a full retreat. The heat from them makes you shiver.
"How do you figure?" Her voice is low, raspy in the small space between you. It makes you swallow.
"The last few freethrows," you reply. Your voice is surprisingly even. "Your stance changed. You shifted your weight backwards, off-setting the trajectory of the ball. You missed."
You meet and hold her dark eyes, almost a challenge.
"On purpose."
Somewhere along the way you've forgotten to remove your hands. They still rest on her arm and jaw. Jane's grip doesn't loosen, and the intimacy of your embrace is not lost on you. Her eyes search your face, and you wonder what she reads there.
The silence is heavy with promise. It builds until you feel it as a physical presence, making it difficult to breathe.
"On purpose," she finally repeats. Her tone gives the words an entirely different meaning.
You manage to nod. Once, jerky. You're having a hard time hearing over the blood rushing in your ears. Over her shoulder, you see Frankie glance your way before purposefully turning his back. You decide to buy him a car for Christmas.
Jane's fingers flex. The movement sends tingles over your skin and brings your eyes to hers again.
You don't dare breathe.
She leans forwards, and her mouth brushes the corner of your lips. Light, hesitant. Purposeful. It asks a question and answers one at the same time.
You press into the kiss, fingers tightening along her jaw. The heat from her proximity sets your skin aflame. She hovers for the space of a breath as the scent of lavender and excursion overwhelms your senses. A now familiar melody teases the back of your mind.
Then the pressure is gone, and you're slow to recover, clinging to muscle memory and thankful for Jane's hands to keep you upright. You can feel her looking at you, but you can't manage to open your eyes yet.
"Sugar plum."
Jane leans back, ducking her head, eyes confused but also dancing with amusement. "What?"
You blush, not realizing you'd spoken aloud. "Nothing."
You pull your hands away, self-conscious. Straighten your coat and tuck hair behind your ears for something to do, to pretend a blush is not turning your face crimson.
She just stares. You start to panic.
"You should put your coat back on, Jane. You don't want to catch cold." You aim for scolding but only manage teasingly flustered.
She lets out a breathy laugh. The awkward bob of her throat belies her seeming calm, and you gradually find yourself on firmer ground. Perhaps you're not the only one unsure.
Reaching out, you brush the errant curl from her throat, watching as caramel eyes follow your movement and flick back to yours. They soften with affection, and you know the last few moments were not a mistake. The tightness in your chest uncoils and you find your lips lifting up to return her smile.
Your heart expands. This. This is a moment that calls for a soundtrack.
She glances over her shoulder at Frankie, who has yet to end his rather extensive perusal of dead grass. Hands in her pockets, her posture shifts into a partial slouch and she gives you a look – that look, half-smirk and half-tease – and you both dread and long for what she'll say next.
"Whatever you say, sugar plum."
You sigh. You'll never live this down.
A/N:
Written based on a prompt from cokecam, who said we needed more fics where Maura watches Jane play basketball. Here you go. :) Hope it's okay.
A similar version of Maura's Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy I had in mind is by Pentatonix on their new Christmas album. You can find it here: www dot youtube dot com /watch?v=jt3oAyK_IG8. I recommend closing your eyes and just listening.